


Ten Inches (Of Snow)

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [70]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam Winchester, Deepthroating, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Rough Oral Sex, Slice of Life, Snow Day, Super Bowl, Top Dean Winchester, obnoxious Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chicago is experiencing a blizzard. Dean can't help but make dirty comments about the ten inches they're supposed to get (of snow) and the ten inches he's got (he does, he swears). And, since the Super Bowl is still a few hours away, he can think of ways to pass the time, snowed in with Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Inches (Of Snow)

 

“Is she all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. She sent over soup and tortillas. Fuck, it’s cold. Oh, and the cocoa you like.”

“Don’t know why you don’t like it.”

“Milk.”

“What about milk.”

“I get bloated.”

“You do not.”

“Sam, just put the damn food away. I want a beer.”

“Speaking of bloat…”

“Excuse me, did you just spend half an hour outside shoveling a walkway from our house to Mrs. Martinez’s? Did you just spend ten minutes inside her house, watching Julio sit on his fat, useless ass while she tried to pay me twenty bucks? I want a god damn beer. My scarf is frozen.”

“Hey—I told you. I said, ‘Dean, the kids from the block will do it. Dean, don’t go out there shoveling, it’s not good for you. Dean, put on more layers.’ I said all of that, so quit whining.”

“Oh, well good for you, you ran your mouth this morning.”

“Watch it.”

“Where’s my beer?”

“I made you tea.”

“I want a beer.”

“You’re getting _tea_ now and you can have beer later.”

“It’s the Super Bowl, Sam!”

“It’s the pre-game, jerkass. You have plenty of time to go shower and change.”

“Gonna be a blizzard around two.”

“Don’t leave your shoes there!”

“Where then?!”

“On the mat, on the mat.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Drink.”

“I hate tea.”

“You don’t. Eat this.”

“What’s this?”

“Grilled cheese.”

“I can see that, but what’s in it?”

“Tomato, bacon, pepperjack, and some of those caramelized onions you made Thursday.”

“Holy shit.”

“Sit down and take off your socks, you doof.”

“Mmph—‘mnota’oof.”

“Lift your knee.”

“Mm.”

“You want a heat pad on your back?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have cash for the kids?”

“Uh huh.”

“Wallet?”

“Pocket.”

“Fifty?”

“Nah.”

“A hundred and they clean her driveway too?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t eat so fast, Dean, you’ll choke.”

“Pfffft.”

“Sit up. It’s on high, switch it to low in a while.”

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“…can I have more?”

“More what? Sandwich or tea?”

“Both.”

“Yeah, Dean. Give me a few minutes.”

“M’back hurts.”

“Well, I told you not to shovel.”

“I know.”

“I also told you not to bet so much money on the game.”

“Who told you!”

“That doesn’t matter. Besides, you bet on the wrong team.”

“They’re due for a win, dammit.”

“Just because I’m in the kitchen doesn’t mean I can’t see you rolling your eyes.”

“…”

“Or sticking your tongue out.”

“…fucker.”

“I’m gonna tip the kids an extra twenty on you just for that. Here.”

“Oh fuck, you added more cheese.”

“Figured I’d use the rest.”

“Sam?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

“Way it looks outside, no one’s going to work tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“You upset the guys can’t come over to watch the game?”

“Nah. You read plays better than those knuckleheads anyway.”

“You know it doesn’t start for a while still.”

“Yeah…”

“So… we could…”

“Oh, fuck _yes_.”

Sam laughs. “I didn’t even say what, yet!”

Dean pulls him in close, his hands on the sides of Sam’s jaw, pressing their mouths together. There’s a blizzard outside, with warnings in place for counties all across the state until midnight. Dean is fairly certain that the pathway he dug from their house to Mrs. Martinez’s is already covered up. While he was shoveling, the snow kept falling. How fair is that? But it was better to do it earlier rather than later. In a few hours, it’s supposed to snow worse and winds will reach 40mph. By then, Dean wants to be lying on the long couch, wrapped in blankets, eating junk food and groping Sam in between commercials.

And now, he wants nothing more than to be here, on the small couch, Sam seated next to him but rapidly closing the space between them.

His mug of tea and unfinished grilled cheese sit on the coffee table, while his hands smooth down to the tender slope of Sam’s neck. A press of his thumbs against the right spots on either side creates a tantalizing, electrifying gasp. Sam is dressed in his pajamas still—black and gray plaid sweats and one of Dean’s light gray Henley’s. His hair is swept up in a messy ponytail. He is warm all over.

Sam was still asleep when Dean was getting ready to shovel.

A migraine last night prompted a late morning. But Sam got up when he heard Dean putting his boots on, and wrapped a scarf around Dean, tying it securely. He also made Dean take off his boots and put another layer of socks on. His feet stayed dry the entire time he was out there in the rising tundra.

Kisses transform into something much more ambitious and desperate.

The television isn’t on. The house is quiet. Outside, the rumble of snowplows comes and goes. Wind whips the trees on their block and rattles the speed limit signs. Weather warnings came in last night.

Dean’s shoulders are pushed back, into the couch.

The pace is changed.

Sam straddles Dean’s lap, grinding down, with his hands on either side of Dean.

Later on, there will be air force thunderbirds and the national anthem, the coin toss, sportscasters, million dollar commercials, and a fucking good game.

But now.

Now there’s only Sam.

And he smells like grilled cheese, cinnamon spiced tea, bacon, and bed. Dean breathes in deep and exhales slow, closing his eyes and basking in kisses and nips over his lips, jaw line, and neck. All the while, their hips meet with a drag created from the jeans Dean is still wearing. His chest rises from a sharp inhale the second deft fingers reach for the zipper of those jeans.

Their eyes meet for a second. Then Dean is distracted by the dimples that surround a smile.

Sam shakes his head and thumps his right hand on Dean’s shoulder, sighing as he moves down to his knees, settling in the vee of Dean’s legs. Shit. Fuck _yes_. His heart is beating faster than when he was outside shoveling and cursing. All it takes to wind him up is the sight of Sam’s mouth near his hips and the feel of long, warm fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, lifting him up and out of his jeans, just an inch away from that generous, dimpled mouth.

Snow is always made worse in Chicago by the wind. From the living room, Dean can vaguely tell that something is happening outside and it’s doing a number on the streets since the plows are working overtime—but holy fuck, Sam just swallowed him up and sucked him in. Sam is here on business. There’s no foreplay or teasing or misunderstanding about what he means to do. He’s blowing Dean to the fucking moon, hollowing his cheeks, slurping loud, twisting his head and bobbing up and down, then deepthroating like there’s an expiration date on Dean’s cock.

Jesus. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Shi—Dean yips as Sam’s lips seal around his cock tighter, increasing pressure and hold. The ponytail in Sam’s hair is let loose; Dean threads his hands into gray-streaked chestnut hair, twisting for just a little pain to mix in with all of this fucking good, good, _so_ _good_ …

To a rhythm Dean knows well, he works with Sam, thrusting up, driving in, changing the angle just a hair so he is stuffed into Sam’s mouth in the best way. His hands leave Sam’s hair for a minute, sweeping down to Sam’s cheeks, thumbs pressing in just to feel his cock there—heavy, twitching, and slick. Dean stretches out, tossing his head back, and pulling Sam just an inch closer. He feels Sam take in a deep breath.

Good.

Dean takes his hands off and lifts his arms, placing them behind his head.

Sam looks up and pops off for a second, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes half-lidded and a languid smirk still present.

Another snow plow rumbles by. Dean leans forward and presses a kiss to Sam’s nose.

Then he gets serious.

With his hands behind him still, he arches his hips up, the tip of his cock bumping against Sam’s lips. He doesn’t have to say a word for Sam to open up. In one push, Dean slips in, buried, tapping the back of Sam’s fluttering throat. Dean pulls back, hips settling down on the couch. They make eye contact once again and Dean shudders. Fuck.

This is what Sam just _does_ to him.

He makes Dean grilled cheese sandwiches and props his knee up and gives him the best god damn blow job in the history of forever and ever. Sam’s throat relaxes. He’s ready.

This is porn star filthy.

Every thrust into Sam’s mouth is wet, hot, and _loud_.

And of course, Sam doesn’t let Dean have all the fun. In between fucking Sam’s mouth, Sam plasters his hands over Dean’s thighs, stills him, and goes to town again—bobbing, sucking, forcing his throat to open up, coughing and gagging on purpose just so Dean can hear and feel it. Dean twists his hips to the left for Sam to let up again. He makes Sam work for air, sitting up more and more just to get a better angle. This. This. This.

It’s just… not quite enough.

Sam’s face is flushed, tears are at the corners of his eyes, his hair is a mess and his lips are going to feel this for hours after. But there’s just…

Dean tilts forward. He pushes himself off the couch until he’s standing and Sam is still kneeling. Wordlessly, he nudges them around the couch, towards the back of it. He reaches down and shows Sam exactly how he wants this. And Sam is beautiful. Sam opens up a little more and looks up at Dean with all the trust in the world.

That alone causes Dean to groan.

He pistons into Sam’s mouth, thrusting down. Each stroke is longer and slower than the last, until he’s buried to the root, completely still. Sam closes his eyes and starts gagging. Fuck.

Dean tilts Sam down a little more. He braces himself on the back of the couch and gives a small warning thrust. He’s not stopping. Sam nods once. _Go_.

Snapping his hips forward, Dean pounds into Sam’s mouth. He has to bend forward and push his hips down, but it’s worth it. It’s worth it for the sound, the feel, the sight. What seals the deal is Sam’s hands reaching up and planting themselves square on Dean’s ass, pulling him in more and groping while he’s at it. Dean’s mouth opens and he lets out a labored moan. Sam forces him still and sucks until Dean’s eyes roll back. He comes hard. He comes against the back of Sam’s throat. He comes to the feel of Sam swallowing every last drop, wringing it out from him until he’s absolutely boneless.

Sam pops off and clears his throat.

Carefully, he crawls out from under Dean and stands up, laughing as he situates Dean back onto the couch. Dean can’t talk. He can barely remember his name.

“I came too, just in case you were wondering,” Sam huffs, swatting at the back of Dean’s head. Dean gives a thumbs up. Good. Great. What century is this again?

Flopped onto the couch with Dean, Sam curls up next to him, resting his head on Dean’s chest. He’s tucked Dean back into his jeans, but Dean suddenly wants nothing more than to be in his pair of sweat pants. That would be perfect.

What is not perfect is the doorbell ringing.

“I’ll get it,” Sam volunteers. He pats Dean’s head on his way over, and stops at the kitchen counter to grab money and a piece of gum. When he opens the door, it’s the kids from down the block, asking if they’d like their driveway cleared. They ask for forty bucks. Sam offers them a hundred if they’ll do Mrs. Martinez’s driveway and sidewalk too. And an extra ten if they can do the walkway in the back again, since by now, another three inches has fallen. He doesn’t mention the extra twenty for tip they’ll get once the job is done, but a hundred and ten dollars has the kids moving fast with their shovels and industrial snow blowers.

Dean laughs.

Sam closes the front door and walks back over, standing in the living room. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“You won’t appreciate it.”

“Tell me or I eat the cheese log by myself.”

“Pfft fine, go ahead. Ain’t my digestive track.”

“Just tell me.”

“Ugh, okay. So… snow blower.”

“What about it?”

“It’s snowing outside.”

“Yeah.”

“And you blew me.”

“Okay…?”

“That makes you _my_ snow blower.”

Sam sighs and shakes his head. He mutters something about burying Dean in a snow bank and seeing if he can find his way out again. At the window, he watches the kids fight over who gets to push the snow blower first and who has to shovel first.

“Get back here,” Dean whines, thumping the empty place on the couch beside him. “I’m cold again.”

Long hair is tied back into a ponytail. “Hmph. You’re getting spoiled, Dean.”

“Yeah and what of it, huh?”

“That’s a bad thing. Just like the snow. You know I heard it might snow ten inches today.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“You know what else is ten inches?”

Sam walks away from Dean, stomping to their bedroom to change, sighing and rolling his eyes again. Dean follows after, just because it’s too precious of a moment to let go of.

“C’mon, that was funny!”

“No. You are not ten inches.”

“I so am.”

“Uh, no, you aren’t.”

“Am too.”

“Are not!”

Game time is in four hours. Dean has plenty of time to watch the snow fall and get Sam pissed off and sweet again before that.

“Fine. Next time you blow me, I’m putting a ruler in your mouth.”

“…that doesn’t even _make_ sense!”

“Then just agree with me—I’m ten inches and you know it.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Don’t call yourself crazy.”

“DEAN.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Today, it took 90 minutes just to clear off the driveway and by now, all my progress is gone. D8
> 
> But I also got a snow day from work! So instead of working, I was at home all day writing porn. Lucky for y'all. If you've been snowed in or if you had to brave the outside, this is for you and I hope it makes your day. If neither of those things apply to you (lucky ducks!) this is still for you. XD
> 
> We all know how much Dean likes his blow jobs and bothering Sam. The weather reports kept emphasizing inches of snow and I just couldn't help myself. My mind goes strange, lovely places.
> 
> Enjoy! (Now I promise to get back on track to my other projects!)


End file.
